University of Virginia Library

My eye and Tommy.

This is rather an obscure phrase. I suspect the author wrote My own to me, and that the passage originally stood thus:

But I have that without you can't take from me,
As my black clothes are all my own to me.

The whole passage, which before was unintelligible, is, by this slight alteration, rendered perfectly clear; and may be thus explained:—You may disapprove of my outward appearance, but you cannot compel me to alter it; for, you have no controul over that which I wear without, as my black clothes are all my own to me.—i. e. my own personal property—not borrowed

from the Royal ward-robe, but made expressly for me, and at my own expense.

Here is an elaborate display of ingenuity without accuracy. He that will wantonly sacrifice the sense of his author to a supererogatory refinement, may gain the admiration of the unlearned, and excite the wonder of the ignorant; but of obtaining the praise of the illuminated, and the approbation of the erudite, let him despair.

My eye and Tommy (i. e fudge) is the true reading; and the passage, as it stands, is correct.

In the Ryghte Tragycall Hystorie of Master Thomas Thumbe, bl. let. no date, I find, “'Tis all my eye and Betty Martin” used in the same sense. If the substitution of “Tommy” for “Betty Martin” be allowed, Dr. Johnson's explanation is just.

My dear, take my Belcher ------

I question whether Belchers were known in Denmark, as early as the time of Hamlet. This is an evident Anachronism.

In a very old bl. let. Detaille of ye Workes of ye Loome, I find mention of “Belle-chere, a Kerchief (so called, because of it's Beautie and of it's Dearnesse) used only by Folke of Degree.” With greater propriety might Dr. Johnson have doubted the existence of Umbrellas in Denmark.

quizzing ------

i. e. Making game.

Cheer ------

The folio reads chear.

Mr. Pope is, I think, incorrect. I have consulted, not only all the folios, but also all the quartos, octavos, and duodecimos, and find that they concur in reading cheer. As I consider this a point of too much importance to be left in uncertainty, I have been the more careful in my examination of it.

My watch says twelve ------

Horatio says, 'tis half past eleven at most. That

Marcellus's watch keeps time more accurately than Horatio's, is proved by the appearance of the ghost; as it is well known that ghosts are never visible until midnight.

For a man to wear a good watch, although there be neither a moral obligation, nor a physical necessity; yet he who, disdaining the equivocating offspring of Geneva, carries one whose motions are regulated with rigid scrupulosity, and whose information is delivered with oracular veracity, deserves praise, and merits commendation.

There is so surprising a display of intellect in this observation, that I shall forbear to question the truth of the position.

Rig ------

A row; a kick-up.

Rig is not, strictly, a row, but rather a go: in which sense it is used in another part of this play.

You'd better hold your jaw ------

The folio reads mag: but I adopt jaw (from the quarto) as the more elegant; and as being more in the spirit of our author.

Gab ------

i. e. Mag, or jaw. See the “Slang Dictionary.” St. Gile's Edition.

That diddled me ------

The true reading I believe to be “that did me.” To do a person, is, to cheat him.

Diddled is correct. To do and to diddle mean the same.

What's the row?

I have ventured to restore this from the old copies: in the later ones I find, what now?

he's up to snuff.

This is highly figurative. To snuff up is to scent. Guildenstern says,

“------ he knows well enough
“The game we're after: Zooks, he's up to snuff.”

that is, he has got scent of the game we are in pursuit of. The metaphor, which is striking and apposite, is borrowed from the Chase.

Without having recourse to a far-fetched explanation, I choose to understand the passage in it's common acceptation: The game we're after means nothing more than the trick by which we are endeavouring

to worm from his secret; but which, as he is up to snuff, i. e. as he is a knowing one, he will, assuredly, render inefficacious.

Recitative, (accompanied) and Duett.

This, and all that follows to the end of the scene, is, in almost all the old copies, (for what reason I know not) omitted. By restoring it, I remove the languor under which, for want of a pathetic lovescene, the play has, hitherto, laboured.

that's all gammon.

It is probable that the author intended game, man! By game may be understood fudge, or blarney. When we recollect that many of our author's plays were taken down in writing during the performance, and consider that the copyists may have been misled by the indistinct articulation of the actors, the error may be easily accounted for.

The passage, as it stands, is correct; and, to me, appears perfectly intelligible: that's all gammon, is equivalent to that's all my eye.

Mr. Pope, not readily understanding the passage, seems willing to plunge it still deeper into unintelligibility: like him who, deprived of the organs of vision, excludes the light from his chamber, and immerses it in impenetrable tenebrosity, in order that his visitors may partake of, and be involved in, that obscurity, under which he himself is doomed to suffer.

row.

A breeze; a kick-up.

I find this word used, in the same sense in an old ballad (which, no doubt, was within our author's knowledge) called Molle in ye Wadde. bl. let. 1564:

“Molle in ye Wadde and I felle outte,
“And what doe you thinke itt was aboutte?
“She wanted monnie—I had nonne,
“And that's ye waie ye row begun.”
[began]

Jump o'er a broomstick.

We might, with more propriety, read mop-stick;

but as I do not approve of alterations unsupported by authority, or of emendations, captious or arbitrary, I leave the text as I found it.

Broomstick is certainly right. The allusion is to an ancient custom noticed in Quiz'em's Chronicles, printed by Stephen Typpe, at the Sign of the Catte and Fiddelle, London, 1598. bl. let. and entered in the books of the Stationers Company, November 1598.

“------ And ye Bryde and ye Brydegroome, not handyely fyndeing a Parson, and being in grievous haste to bee wed; they did take a Broome-stycke, and they did jumpe from one syde of ye Broome-stycke over to ye other syde thereof; and haveing so done, they did thinke them lawfulle Man and Wyffe.”

Mad as butter in the sun.

Amongst the popular superstitions is one, that butter is mad twice a year: viz. in summer, when its liquability renders it tenable only in a spoon; and in winter, when, by the adhesion of its parts, it almost resists the knife.

Thou'lt sweetly tickle this young Jockey's mutton.

The quarto reads, and, I think, properly, pickle.

I have restored tickle from the folio. In rejecting pickle, I am supported by the context: for who ever heard of pickled mutton? As a further proof, if (in support of a point established in reason, and beyond the reach of controversy,) further proof be necessary, let me produce the adverbial epithet sweetly; for that which is pickled is never sweet, as the distinguishing property of a pickle is its power of exciting on the palate a sensation of acidity.

To tickle one's mutton, is a popular expression; and means, to punish by flagellation.

Dr. Johnson may be right: for in no one of the numerous Works upon Cookery, either ancient or modern, which I have referred to, do I find the slightest mention of pickled mutton.

My inquiries into this important subject, though equally diligent in the prosecution, have been less successful in the result, than my investigation of that more delicate topic—stewed prunes; which, I flatter myself, I have (in another place ) so fully, and so satisfactorily, discussed, as to set all further question upon the matter at rest.

Peggy Tomkins ------

Some of the modern editions read Peggy Perkins: but as the change was, most likely, unauthorized, and made merely for the sake of the alliteration, I follow the old copies.

My coach—three thirty-five ------

This is an exquisite touch of nature. Ophelia is now wavering between sense and insanity: she calls, first, for one coach; and then, for three hundred and thirty-five coaches.

This I allow to be an exquisite touch of nature: but by the illustration which the Right Reverend has attempted, its force is obstructed, and its beauty obscured. Three thirty-five is, evidently, the number of the hackney coach which brought Ophelia to the palace. Here the poet has given an instance of his unbounded knowledge of human nature. In a short interval of lucidity Ophelia calls for her coach; and then, forgetful of the presence of the “Majesty of Denmark,” she calls for it by its number 335. This is madness pathetic and interesting:

had she, as Dr. Warburton erroneously supposes, called for three hundred and thirty-five coaches, it would have been a representation of madness too terrific for exhibition on the stage. Madness is agreeable only until it becomes outrageous.

Blarney ------

i. e. Gammon.

Rope of onions ------

I do not understand this. May we not, with greater propriety, read, a robe of onions? i. e. a fantastical garment ornamented with onions, in the same way as masqueraders frequently wear a domino, studded with gingerbread nuts—a dress such as Ophelia's phrenzy might naturally suggest to her.

Rope is undoubtedly the true reading. A rope of onions is a certain number of onions, which, for the convenience of portability, are, by the market-women, suspended from a rope: not, as the Oxford editor

ingeniously, but improperly, supposes, in a bunch at the end, but in a perpendicular arrangement.

For the hints afforded me in the formation of this note, and for those contained in the note upon pickled mutton, I am indebted to a lady celebrated at once for her literary acquirements, and for her culinary accomplishments.

To bring a rope of onions, &c.

Let us suppose that Ophelia addresses this to the king, and we shall discover a peculiar propriety in its application. The king is represented as an intemperate drinker—Ophelia seems to know that onions are a powerful diuretic. Verbum sapienti.

Should the concise manner in which I treat this subject, expose me to the charge either of decency, or of deficiency in the talent of definition, I trust that my note upon potatoes (wherein I have so clearly and so minutely explained the virtues of that invaluable plant) will free me from both.

Mill him.

To mill is to whack, or, to thump. See the Slang Dictionary. St. Giles's Edition.

The Billingsgate edition of the Slang Dictionary, which, in point of accuracy, I conceive to be the least exceptionable, explains it, to knuckle, or, to lather.

We're bewitch'd, 'tis plain.

Hamlet's meaning appears to me to be this: I know not how to account for the succession of calamities which has befallen us, unless by supposing that we are labouring under the influence of witchcraft.

Towzer.

Probably the name of the royal watch-dog.

Anon, he's patient as a hungry mouser.

This passage is unintelligible. I cannot believe

that patience is the characteristic of a hungry animal.

The difficulty of this passage will be solved by supplying an apostrophe, which, doubtless, was intended to mark the elision of the a in hungry; and by substituting a capital H for a small one.

We must understand a Hungary (for Hungarian) mouser.

This emendation is so ingenious that I am sorry it is not just: for the passage, in its present state, is, not only correct, but eminently beautiful. The Queen compares the patience of Hamlet to that which, after a long privation from food, is exhibited by a mouser whilst watching for its prey.

There is yet a beauty which Dr. Johnson has passed without notice. The Queen not only compares Hamlet's occasional patience to that of a hungry mouser; but, at the same time, contrasts it with his paroxysms of ferocity, resembling the growlings of a watch-dog: whence it is common to say of two persons who live discordantly that “they agree like cat and dog.”

It may not be, altogether, uninteresting to the curious reader, to know that a mouser is a cat which is trained up for the purpose of killing rats as well as mice. So in Chaucer's Romaunt de la rose, ver. 6204:

“------ Gibbe our cat,
“That waiteth mice and rats to killen.”

Bread-basket.

This is poetical. Hamlet strikes Laertes in the stomach: the stomach being the depository for food (the pantry, as it were, of the human frame), it is metaphorically termed the bread-basket.

Dash my wig.

If I might hazard a conjecture upon this, I should suppose that the Queen of Denmark wore a wig.

Saxo-Grammaticus, Olaus Wormius, and all the old Danish writers, concur in stating that the Queen of Denmark wore a wig. As to its colour they are

all silent; but they are at considerable variance respecting its shape: for whilst some declare it to have been a Brutus, others as confidently assert that it was a Perruque à la Greque. I have consulted one hundred and fourteen controversial tracts, (bl. let.) expressly upon the subject, and am still at a loss which side of the question to espouse. I shall, however, resume the inquiry, and communicate the result of my laborious researches to the literary world.

Whether the Queen of Denmark wore a Brutus, or a Perruque à la Greque, is a question which, at this distance of time, to determine were difficult, and which, if determined, would tend only to the gratification of an idle and impertinent curiosity: while the time bestowed upon the inquiry might be more usefully, more advantageously, and more beneficially employed in improving the wigs which are worn by co-temporaneous heads; or, in anticipating improvements for those which may be, hereafter, displayed on the heads of posterity.

'tis all Dickey with us both.

The meaning of this is, the game is up with us; or, we have gone the length of our tether.

So in a old ballad called Gabriel Gubbyns hys Lamentation, bl. let. 1602:

“No more Larke I trowe,
“'Tis all Dyckye nowe,
“For I shall bee hangyt for coynynge.”

I'm dead—at least I shall be in a minute.

Thus the folio. The quarto reads,

I'm dead at last—or shall be in a minute.

We might, without much violence, read and point thus:

I'm dead: at rest I shall be in a minute.

By at rest is meant buried.

What authority Dr. Warburton has for this alteration I know not: and I am equally ignorant of his reasons for so unequivocally asserting that at rest means buried. Surely when once the principle of vitality has quitted his frame, a man is as much at rest above ground as under. So feebly is he armed, that, in the present instance, I consider the reverend critic as an unequal adversary; and, therefore, scorn to meet him within the lists of controversy. Impotency demands our pity; but when it affects Herculean muscularity, it but provokes our contempt. We disdain to punish, but we are bound to expose. Were the proposed reading to be admitted, we should make Hamlet positively announce his own death, and afterwards advert to his own funeral. But of this too much.

------

To a literary friend of mine am I indebted for the following very acute observation: “Throughout this play,” says he, “there is nothing more beautiful than these dashes: by the increase in their lengths, they distinctly mark the

increasing difficulty of utterance observable in a dying man.” To which let me add, that although dashes are in frequent use with our tragic poets, yet they are seldom introduced with so good an effect as in the present instance.